


how unreasonably in love I am with everything you do

by leaveanote



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Communication on Both Sides, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Geralt Gets Taken Care Of, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, He/Him pronouns for both, Jaskier | Dandelion In A Dress, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Romance, Sex, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Trust and love, lots of sex and lots of softness, some light gender feelings but mostly just feelings feelings, the dress makes it out mostly intact but only because geralt likes it too much to rip, they feel safe with each other!, they're very in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27748054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/pseuds/leaveanote
Summary: Geralt gets back to the inn ahead of schedule, and catches his companion in an outfit he hasn’t seen before as he readies to go to a party. Conversations on trust and love ensue, as well as quite a few other things. Yes, Jaskier runs very late to his party.aka Jaskier wears a pretty dress and fucks the hell out of Geralt, also they’re very much in love.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 26
Kudos: 388





	how unreasonably in love I am with everything you do

**Author's Note:**

> needed jasker in a dress. needed geralt getting taken apart. needed lots of love and trust and reverence between them!

“Jaskier, what time are you leaving for—oh.”

Geralt freezes in the doorway of their shared room at the inn. 

“Er,” Jaskier says nervously, capping the lipstick. He tucks it into what looks like one of several pockets within the many voluptuous folds of the silk and lace dress that cascades in a deep v down his chest. The bodice is silver and ornately brocaded, contrasting starkly with the rough hair curling between it, and it billows out from his narrow hips into layered skirts of rich cerulean that make his lovely eyes bright as gemstones. 

Geralt swallows. Hard. His brain, so often at a loss when it comes to Jaskier anyway, seems to be re-starting.

“What kind of party is this?” is all he can manage, closing the door behind him. The color rises in Jaskier’s cheeks, setting off his amaranthine lipstick prettily. 

“I—this—” Jaskier wrings his hands. “You were supposed to be gone until nightfall!”

He’s  _ nervous,  _ Geralt registers, his thoughts catching up, processing scent and body language beyond how fucking drop-dead stunning Jaskier looks. 

“Wasn’t a vampire after all,” he says, waving dismissively, “farmer got it wrong. Just a disease, got into the cattle. Not an uncommon one, I pointed him toward a cure and got paid half for my troubles, altogether not a bad day.” He steps forward. “Especially since I got to come back to  _ this.” _

This isn’t the first time Jaskier’s gone to court parties like this while Geralt’s out, Geralt realizes with a jolt. The lipstick, the way the gown sits on him—he does this, and he hides it. A pang goes through Geralt’s gut. It’s still taking some getting used to, the soft heat and radiant comfort of what this is between them, but the most important thing is that Jaskier knows how wholly Geralt loves him, and if this is a part of who he is, Geralt needs him to know he loves it too.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and Jaskier stares at him, a hitch in his breath. “You look  _ good.” _

He can feel Jaskier sag with relief. The tension isn’t entirely gone yet, but Jaskier flashes that cheeky grin of his.

“I do, don’t I?” he says, fussing with his skirts, and Geralt melts. 

“Beautiful,” Geralt says hoarsely, feeling heat gather below his belly. “Go on, show it off. Turn around for me.”

Jaskier does, several times. The first a spin, making his skirts fan like forget-me-not petals around him, the second slower, so Geralt gets to see just how it frames his chest, his hips—how he  _ glows  _ in it, so him and so happy with himself, and Geralt feels like he’s been given a gift. He growls appraisingly, approvingly, as Jaskier preens under his gaze.

“Can I kiss you?”

“You’d better,” Jaskier breathes, and Geralt scoops him into his arms. 

It’s a kiss that starts out more cautious than usual, a more tentative build into the comfortable heat they’ve settled into over the years. Geralt threads his fingers through Jaskier’s soft hair, lets his other hand travel reverent down the back of the brocaded bodice to rest on Jaskier’s waist. The bard is trembling slightly, and Geralt holds him steady. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, rubbing Jaskier’s bare arm. 

Jaskier gives a little laugh into his mouth and gazes at him through those ridiculously pretty lashes.

“You’ve got my lipstick on you, is what you’ve got,” he says, smudging it with his thumb. Geralt tilts his head and grazes his teeth over it, and Jaskier inhales sharply, pressing his body closer. 

“Mm,” Geralt rumbles. “Can I have more?”

Jaskier lets out a little  _ oh  _ and kisses him harder this time, and Geralt can feel the relief and desire strumming together through his partner’s body. Geralt kisses back with deliberate hunger and love, stepping Jaskier backward until he can crowd him against the wall of their room. He pulls away just for a moment, to take in Jaskier’s half-lidded eyes, his prettily panting mouth all smudged with lipstick.

“Fuck.” Geralt noses the line of Jaskier’s jaw, laving kisses along his throat, and Jaskier moans, arching into him. “What time d’you have to leave?”

“I can be late,” Jaskier says, and hitches his dress up so he can wrap one leg around Geralt’s waist, dragging him even closer. He’s not wearing anything beneath the dress, and his half-hard cock presses against Geralt’s full erection through his trousers. 

“You’re sure? I don’t want to keep you from—”

“Geralt.” Jaskier cups Geralt’s chin, his chest heaving. _“Keep me.”_

“Oh.”

Geralt buries his face in the crook of Jaskier’s throat again, tugging the brocaded strap of a sleeve aside to bite bruises into Jaskier just as he likes. The deep v of the cut lets him mouth over Jaskier’s nipples with ease, licking them, grazing them with his teeth until they harden, and isn’t  _ that  _ just an overwhelmingly pretty sight set off by the bodice. He slips his hand beneath the silky layers of the dress to caress the curves of Jaskier’s hips, his stomach, his strong thighs, and when he brushes up against Jaskier’s cock at last, they’re both hard. He smears his thumb in the spill of precome, makes a rough sound in the back of his throat at how good Jaskier feels as he starts to stroke him.

“Hm.” Geralt grins, hitching the skirts higher to better jerk him off. “Convenient. You should wear these more often.”

“Ah—oh...” Jaskier makes an unintelligible noise, and it’s mostly arousal but Geralt immediately hears an edge of disappointment, of worry within it. He slows his movements, uncertain, processing through his haze of desire. 

It’s one thing to worry that Geralt wouldn’t like him in a dress, but maybe now Jaskier thinks—

“You think I might like you best, looking like this.” Geralt realizes. He lets go of Jaskier’s cock, cupping his cheek instead. 

“I just—I mean,  _ maybe,  _ if that’s what you want, and I wouldn’t mind, I—I love you, and I want to give you whatever you—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says firmly. “I just meant ‘cause it’s convenient. I love you too, you know that. As you are. All of it,” he says, gesturing, “all of you. Everything you are.” 

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, relaxing, because he  _ does  _ know it, but it’s very, very good to remind him anyway. He tilts his hips back up, asking, and Geralt answers, taking him in hand again.

“Convenient, and,” Geralt says, matter-of-fact, “because you look fucking fantastic in it.” 

Jaskier brightens, his confidence building.

“You do in everything though,” Geralt admits, and Jaskier grins warmly now, biting his lip. “Fuck, when you found me by the river, with your clothes all undone?” He kisses him again, and Jaskier surges into it, those clever hands going around his shoulders, hips bucking himself deeper into Geralt’s fist. “That prissy done-up gilded thing you wore to the betrothal? Wanted to rip it off you all night.”

“You did?” Jaskier gasps, delighted. There’s no more worry now, just the heady rush of love and want Geralt knows so well. 

“I always do,” Geralt says honestly, and Jaskier keens, fucking Geralt’s fist in earnest now. One brocaded sleeve has slipped down his shoulder, the skirts rustle against the wall where they’re bunched at Jaskier’s waist, and he’s so godsdamn pretty Geralt can hardly keep himself upright. “Fuck,  _ always,  _ Jask. When you’re washing my hair, at the bath? When you’re out of all your frippery with your sleeves rolled up and it’s just us?” He works Jaskier’s foreskin back and squeezes the head just how he knows Jaskier likes it, and Jaskier moans happily now, unabashed and hungry. “And now. In this. Look, you look fantastic—”

“Thank you,” Jaskier pants, cheeky and breathless. His hands are working on Geralt’s armor now, getting him unlaced, running his palms over every exposed muscle he can reach. 

“But,” Geralt continues, persistent, “I can tell you feel good in it. Very good. I like that.” He traces his free hand down the v-line of the bodice, across Jaskier’s chest. “I like how you look when you like how you look.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, the depths of understanding sinking in. His face spreads into a broad smile, a  _ good  _ one, bright with a fresh wave of relief and love, and Geralt loves him so fucking much. “Oh, _ Geralt.” _

“If you only ever want to wear dresses, I’ll love you and protect you.” It feels important, now that he’s gotten started, to spell this out. “If you never do again, I’ll love you and protect you.” Jaskier’s eyes are shining, and Geralt gives a lopsided grin. “And if you want to go around naked, well, that’s very much your choice, I’ll certainly love you and protect you, but I can’t say we won’t be late to quite a few more obligations—”

Jaskier kisses him so hard their teeth clash, though that’s perhaps also because he’s smiling quite broadly.

Geralt feels like he’s alight from the sunbeam of Jaskier’s love. He’s blazing with the want, the  _ need,  _ to show Jaskier exactly how much he loves him, and trusts him, and adores him in every possible way.

“I wanna make you feel good too,” he growls. He licks into Jaskier’s mouth with clear meaning and no finesse. “Can I?”

Jaskier’s pupils are blown with lust, his chest heaving.

_ “Please,”  _ he whispers, and Geralt drops to his knees. 

He shoves Jaskier’s skirts back and takes his cock into his mouth right there, their moans blurring together in the echo of the room. Jaskier leans against the wall, pounding a fist against it as Geralt presses the flat of his tongue against Jaskier’s shaft, licks the precome from his slit and savors it. He takes Jaskier so deep his nose nuzzles the thick hair on his stomach, and swallows around him with little rocking motions until Jaskier’s trembling all over. 

Geralt gathers the skirts of the gown and sweeps them over his head, ducking beneath them. Jaskier’s nakedness feels all the more intimate from within the closeness of his dress, casting his rosy-pale skin in a light-blue light that makes him look somehow sturdy and delicate at once, dreamlike and gorgeously real. The inner layers of fabric feel like gossamer, a contradiction to the thick down of hair at Jaskier’s base and his stomach and his thighs, and Geralt could stay here forever. His own erection is heavy in his trousers but he focuses on Jaskier instead. He sucks him in slow, unhurried strokes, letting Jaskier drag heavy over his tongue, losing himself in the heft of him filling his mouth. He cups Jaskier’s balls as he moves, petting, squeezing gently, letting his knuckles nudge against his perineum. Jaskier overwhelms his every sense in the best way, the thick scent of his desire filling the close air beneath the skirts.

“Darling,” Jaskier hisses, and Geralt can feel him fighting to keep his hips steady. He pulls his mouth off, stroking Jaskier’s shaft in his palm as he does.

“I love when you call me that,” he murmurs, and Jaskier shivers.

“You look good under there.”

Geralt huffs a laugh and licks him.

“You can’t see me.”

“Fine,” he laughs back,  _ “feel _ good, then. Let me look at you.”

Jaskier hoists the skirts out of the way, and gasps. 

Geralt breathes in the cool air. His face must be flushed, he knows, his lips raw and slick. He grins up at Jaskier and tugs his free hand to the back of Geralt’s head.

_ “Ohh _ —love, are you sure?”

Geralt growls wordlessly and reaches for Jaskier’s other hand. The skirts fall between his mouth and Jaskier’s stomach but Geralt holds them up and wraps his lips around Jaskier’s cock again, leaning into his hands. His eyeline tracks up Jaskier’s body, the way the skirts spill around him, the dark hair on his chest leading up to that gorgeous throat, the smears of color on his parted lips, and moans around him. He meets Jaskier’s gaze and he knows there’s nothing but pleading and love in his eyes.

He likes this, and Jaskier knows it. He loves to give, and take care of Jaskier however the bard likes, but sometimes that means this—submitting, not having to decide from the frenzy of possibility. Instead, giving himself over to Jaskier to use however he pleases, because he trusts him, because he wants to, and because it feels  _ good. _

“See?” Jaskier whispers, his breath hitching. “You look fucking magnificent like that, darling.”

“Mm,” Geralt hums around him, inviting, beseeching, and Jaskier bares his teeth.

Jaskier grips his hair and starts to fuck his mouth in earnest. He thrusts between Geralt’s lips and Geralt holds his skirts up for him and  _ takes  _ it, letting Jaskier control the pace, the depth, trusting him to stop or shift if Geralt wants but Geralt doesn’t, he wants to be useful, he wants to be  _ used. _

He shifts on his knees and lets his eyes flutter shut, drinking in Jaskier’s arousal and reveling in his saltspill taste, how full he makes Geralt’s mouth, his high, rough singer-sounds, the scent of sweat and perfume and  _ him.  _ Jaskier takes him in rough, hard movements because he knows he can, because he knows Geralt loves it, and bliss spreads through him at that trust and that intimacy, better than intoxication, nearly better than Geralt’s own neglected orgasm. 

“Oh,” Jaskier groans, his hips stuttering, “you’re so  _ good,  _ I’m-I’m close—”

Geralt huffs through his nose, ready to be filled, but Jaskier pulls back.

“D’you want to finish in my mouth?” he asks. His voice is raspy from its thorough fucking, and Jaskier’s cock twitches at it.

“If you’d like,” Jaskier manages. He looks  _ thoroughly  _ debauched, both brocaded sleeves slipped down his shoulders, his hair a wreck of sweaty chestnut locks. 

“Got a better idea?” Geralt raises an eyebrow, and Jaskier grins.

“Ah—can I fuck you?” he asks, and Geralt’s eyes flutter shut again at the prospect, one of his favorites. Well, they’re all his fucking favorites when Jaskier’s concerned, but he does  _ love _ being taken exactly how Jaskier wants him, and the bard is, in all honesty, almost unfairly good at it. And that question, while he’s in that dress—

“Fuck,” Geralt growls.  _ “Yes.” _

He tugs Jaskier to the floor unthinking, overcome with the need to kiss him and nothing else. Jaskier acquiesces happily, letting his skirts bunch and pulling Geralt into his lap. 

“Off,” Jaskier orders, pushing at Geralt’s trousers, and Geralt scrambles to comply, shedding all his clothes. Jaskier beams at him and Geralt feels the warmth from it spreading through his chest. “I think we can save the oil for when I’m fucking you, hm? Would you get my fingers ready for you?”

Geralt lets out a low sound in his throat at the thought, and opens his mouth. He sits on Jaskier’s lap, hands braced on the wall on either side of Jaskier’s head. He lets his eyes close, focusing on the two fingers Jaskier touches to his tongue, sucking them, lapping at them like he lapped at Jaskier’s dick. He rocks the cleft of his arse along Jaskier’s spit-slick length, losing himself in the rhythm of it, and all the while Jaskier pets him all over with his free hand, and  _ praises. _

“Good boy,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt helplessly feels a glut of precome spill from him at  _ that,  _ jerking his hips, thrusting into nothing. He grinds his arse against Jaskier’s erection. “That’s it, that’s very good, darling. You like how I look tonight?” Geralt makes a strangled, instinctive sound between assent and protest and Jaskier laughs softly, stroking his hair back, caressing Geralt’s straining muscles. “You like how I look always, is it?” he teases, and Geralt nods around him. “Good boy, there’s my darling. You’re doing so well. You felt so good, taking care of me, you know. Sucking me off. I do love this mouth of yours, and you’re going to take my cock so well in your arse too, I know you are. Come here.” And with that, he slips his fingers from Geralt’s mouth, leaving him panting, and tilts him forward into Jaskier’s chest. “Ready?”

Geralt nods again, bracing his palms on the wall. Jaskier smiles at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Geralt’s heart races. Jaskier brings one hand to cup the nape of his neck, and moves the other between his thighs, beneath his cock. 

_ “Ah!”  _ Geralt’s head lolls back as Jaskier presses his slick fingers inside. 

“Oh,  _ Geralt,” _ Jaskier moans, his mouth falling open. Geralt loves Jaskier’s many pet names more than he’d ever expected, but it still sparks a specific sort of magic to hear Jaskier say his name like this. “You’re so good for me.”

Geralt can’t speak anymore but Jaskier understands. He curls his fingers, stretching him carefully, massaging little circles exactly where Geralt needs it. Geralt grinds down mindlessly, chasing the sensation. Jaskier’s other hand holds him steady by the back of the neck. They’re close enough to share breath, and even as he’s spread open, knees bruising into the hard floor, Geralt feels safe, and cared for, and cherished.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Jaskier tells him, and Geralt  _ whines  _ because he knows Jaskier means it.

“You’re joking,” he chokes out anyway, bumping his mouth into Jaskier’s cheek in an attempt at a kiss, “it’s you, look at you, you’re so fucking  _ handsome,  _ Jask, you’re the prettiest person I’ve ever seen in my life—”

Jaskier grins, his cheeks dimpling sweetly. 

“Means a lot, coming from an old man like you,” he teases, and Geralt lets out a breathless laugh. That’s been wonderful too, realizing he can... _ laugh _ during sex? That it doesn’t have to be rushed, or intense, or wrapped in pretense and destiny—it can be something fun and joyful and Geralt doesn’t always need to worry about which of his walls he can let down.

“It should,” he says, between groans. He leans forward and cries out as Jaskier’s fingers press just there at the new angle, pressing instinctively into Jaskier before his mind catches up with what that entails. “Oh,  _ ffuck _ —oh, oh fuck, sorry—” His cockhead is dripping down Jaskier’s chest, a thick line of precome trickling toward his bodice-line.

“It’s all right,” Jaskier soothes, rubbing his fingers into him. 

“It’s _ —ah!— _ it’s not, I’m going to ruin this dress—”

“Buy me another,” Jaskier says huskily, and pulls Geralt against him, humming with pleasure as Geralt’s cock rubs against his chest. 

“I’ll buy you a dozen,” Geralt says, and he’s half-giddy with arousal but he means it, and Jaskier chuckles kindly in his ear. “Jaskier,” he murmurs, his voice strung tight. His thighs are starting to shake.

“Mm,” Jaskier smiles. He presses deep, flexing his fingers, and for all his muscles Geralt feels like clay in his hands, re-shaped and yielding and  _ his.  _ “Let’s get my cock in you, shall we?” He doesn’t wait for Geralt to respond, just pulls his fingers out carefully and wraps Geralt’s legs around his waist. Jaskier stands, lifting Geralt easily, and  _ fuck  _ if that doesn’t always make Geralt swoon a bit, how fucking strong he actually is. None of Geralt’s previous partners have ever been able to hold him like this, to make him feel so cared for. 

He watches over Jaskier’s shoulder how the skirts flutter around his thighs, flattering the shape of his arse. He could watch that for fucking hours, days even, and his mind wanders briefly to the thought of Jaskier on the path with him in a gown. It’s distracting enough watching him walk the path in those tight trousers, with  _ this  _ sort of outfit it’ll be a wonder Geralt senses any monsters nearby at all. It would, he thinks, be worth it though, and then Jaskier’s laying him out on the bed.

“I’ve got you, darling,” Jaskier smiles softly. He dusts a kiss on Geralt’s mouth, the lipstick nearly smudged off by now, but there’s still a hint of tack and color. Geralt shakes his head.

“You look  _ so _ good. Always, but fuck, like this…” he hooks a finger in Jaskier’s sleeve, traces the fabric. 

Jaskier blushes altogether too cutely as he reaches for the oil. 

“Very glad you think so.” He lets himself be pulled into a deeper kiss, Geralt hiking the skirts up again so they can rut their cocks together. 

“It’s—fuck.” Geralt swallows hard and grinds up harder, letting the friction drown out the vulnerability that threatens to silence him. He wants to say this. He tilts his head up, gazing into those lovely, bright, patient eyes, blown with lust and love. “You make me feel  _ safe.” _

Jaskier places the oil on the mattress next to them, and takes Geralt’s face in both hands. This kiss is firm and slow, almost a pause in the building heat between them, but even more intimate, more romantic somehow. 

“All my wants,” Geralt says, husky, “all my...my insecurities. My inadequacies. I feel so safe when I’m with you. Not broken, or monstrous, but  _ enough,  _ I—Jask—!”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, eyes shining, saving him from his ramble. “You make me feel exactly the same way.”

“Oh.” 

Geralt kisses him rough and hungry. He wraps his legs around Jaskier’s waist and swallows the bitten-off gasp Jaskier makes in his mouth as they press together. 

“Fuck me,” Geralt rasps, “please?”

Jaskier groans, he loves when Geralt asks for it and they both know it. He reaches for the sheet, wipes his face clean of the last of the lipstick.

“Aw.” Geralt touches his bare lips somewhat regretfully. Jaskier flashes a cheeky smile.

“I’ll wear it again for you, darling. But I want my mouth clean for this.”

Geralt growls the moment he realizes what Jaskier’s going to do. He lets Jaskier shove his thighs back, holds them himself so Jaskier can focus, and then he’s gasping a string of swears as Jaskier kisses his hole, open-mouthed.

Jaskier is  _ extraordinarily  _ talented at this. He’s just fucking good at  _ sex,  _ he never exaggerated about that, but he’s very skilled with his mouth, and he’s brought Geralt off countless times just by fucking his tongue into him and letting him rut against the mattress. Geralt digs his fingers into his own thighs, fighting to last this time. 

Jaskier licks hard, bold stripes up his crease, alternating them with small, specific, swirling motions across his hole. Geralt’s already open from his fingers, and it’s not long before Jaskier’s working his tongue inside, sucking on his rim, all the while moaning into Geralt as if he’s the one being pleasured. 

“Jask—” Geralt grits out. His stomach is a mess of precome. 

“Mmph,” Jaskier mumbles into him, and Geralt writhes at the vibration.

_ “Jask.” _

“All right.” Jaskier sits up, looking very sex-drunk indeed. “Gods, but I could spend all day eating you out.”

“Fuck.” Geralt’s teeth dig into his bottom lip, trying not to come from those fucking words alone. 

“Hm,” Jaskier smiles, leaning to kiss him chastely on the cheek as he reaches for the oil. “Tomorrow, perhaps. Right now, I’m going to fuck you.”

“Get  _ on  _ with it,” Geralt groans, incapable of schooling his voice into something less demanding, but Jaskier only smiles all the fonder. He’s stroking oil onto his magnificent cock now, and Geralt pointedly tries not to look at the display for fear he’s actually last half a second by the time Jaskier puts it in him.

“Yes, dear,” Jaskier says with a wink, and it’s so  _ domestic  _ Geralt could nearly fucking cry, what has he ever done to deserve a love this soft and good? Jaskier kisses him, and the buzzing doubt in his brain quiets as Jaskier pushes his thighs back further, the familiar nudge of his cockhead at Geralt’s entrance. 

And then Jaskier waits until he hears it, because he always does.

“Please,” Geralt whispers, and then he cries out.

Jaskier enters him slow, inch by inch, soothing, praising as he does.

“That’s it, love.  _ Gods _ , you feel so good, wow.” Jaskier gathers his skirts to the side so he can watch as Geralt takes his cock, presses a kiss to his calf, pets Geralt’s hip reassuringly. “How does it feel?”

Geralt can’t speak, but he lets out a soft, broken moan, squeezing Jaskier’s strong thighs, and pulls him deeper with his heels.

Jaskier chuckles, his laugh ragged with want. 

“Ready for me?” he asks, and Geralt nods hard, wordlessly, and then Jaskier’s  _ moving,  _ steady thrusts that build into a confident, powerful rhythm, and Geralt arches his back. Sex with Jaskier, no matter what they’re doing, is wholly different from anything he’d ever had before, encompassing and loving and it actually makes Geralt feel  _ good _ about himself, somewhere deeper than simple release. His body feels like a vessel for pleasure that Jaskier fills to the brim and overflows in the sweetest, most intense way, he hears wrecked, punched-out noises and it takes him several blissed-out minutes to recognize they’re coming from his own throat. 

“You’re—so  _ fucking—good at this,”  _ he moans, writhing on Jaskier’s cock. He forces his eyes open and moans again, at the sheer sight of him.

Jaskier looks like some kind of godsdamned sex deity. 

Sweaty, dark curls framing his pretty face, his parted lips slick with just a faint reminder of color smeared on his cheek, the brocaded sleeves setting off his strong shoulders and the rough, boyish hair on his chest, the cloudlike skirts swept to his slim hips as that gifted cock lights Geralt up from within. 

“Arghh.” Geralt groans, flinging his arms across his face.

“What is it?” Jaskier asks, leaning to pet Geralt’s cheek, and that deeper angle draws out a strangled sob. 

Geralt shakes his head, even as he leans into the touch.

“Don’t—don’t have pretty words for how good this feels. How beautiful you are. Wish I could tell you. You love words, but all of mine feel...inadequate. For how much you mean to me.”

Jaskier grins, and snaps his hips just so. Geralt’s cock throbs against his soaked belly, and he knows he’s getting close.

“Fuck pretty words, leave that to me,” Jaskier says. “You tell me just like that, darling, and I love it.” He reaches beneath Geralt’s arse, lifts him into a deeper angle that sends Geralt reeling. “Just let me take care of you, Geralt. I  _ want _ to.”

Geralt moans again, nods, lets him sink into the sensations and the sheer love and trust brimming between them.

Jaskier moves in self-assured strokes. He knows how to fuck, and he knows how Geralt likes to be fucked, hard on the in-thrust and slow on the withdraw, opening him up and stimulating that spot inside him until Geralt’s shaking. His cock is thick and broad and deliciously curved, the ridge of its head rubbing inside Geralt’s passage on each thrust. 

“Mm,” Geralt murmurs from within his haze. He reaches for Jaskier again, his thighs corded with muscle, his sturdy chest, anything he can reach. His fingers bump the dress, and for the first time, it feels slightly in the way. “Can we—uh. Closer?” Geralt doesn’t have the words to ask for what he wants, but Jaskier understands instantly, as if he’s been thinking the same thing himself.

“Come here, love,” Jaskier says, his voice heavy with sex and effort. He pulls out and Geralt twitches, feeling horribly empty. “Help me with this?”

Geralt’s still loathe to remove the dress, but the prospect of getting Jaskier naked is, as always, an impossibly desirable one. He sits up and kneels, his wet cock heavy between his thighs, as Jaskier turns away, allowing him to undo the laces. It’s blessedly a simple bodice, but Geralt’s fumbling fingers have never felt so useless. He takes each eyelet one at a time so as not to rip anything, loosening it, watching the soft fabric come away from the planes and divots of Jaskier’s strong, smooth back. 

He can’t help himself. He buries his face in the crook where Jaskier’s shoulder meets his throat, inhaling his familiar scent, mouthing sharp, messy kisses there. 

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier tilts his head to grant him more access and sighs, drawn-out and luxuriating. “Oh,  _ Geralt,  _ please, please, let me get out of this thing, let me get back inside you—”

Geralt growls needfully and complies, wrenching the last few crisscrosses loose as quick as he can without tearing it, and then Jaskier’s shrugging himself out of the gown and he’s naked at last, turning to press their bare bodies together, and all Geralt wants is to be covered with him.

He shifts somewhat awkwardly, with Jaskier draped over him, but his partner understands at once as Geralt goes to lie on his belly.

“Please,” he rasps, and then Jaskier’s on top of him, kissing his throat, chest pressed to Geralt’s back, hot, hard hips straddling Geralt’s arse, and then Jaskier drips more oil onto him and pushes inside again, and Geralt  _ sobs.  _

It feels so  _ right.  _ Jaskier moves again, those clever, powerful thrusts at this deeper, more encompassing angle, and Geralt’s pinned between Jaskier’s body and the bed, Jaskier keeping as much of them pressed together as he can, just raising his hips enough to fuck into Geralt so  _ fucking  _ good. His strong hands bracket Geralt’s face where it’s pressed into the pillow and he turns his head to mouth frantic, desperate kisses along the inside of Jaskier’s wrist. 

It’s as if Geralt’s body was made for this. Which is wild, because it  _ wasn’t,  _ it was built for harsh and violent work, but nothing Geralt’s ever done in his long life  _ feels _ this right. As if he was made to make room for this, this sweet, fierce, indulgent, healing act of love. Jaskier holds him down and  _ gives  _ him this, lavishes praise in his ear and holds him down and creates this powerful place of released tension and brilliant rapture emerging between them, and Geralt feels defenseless, it feels like surrender, and it’s the only place in Geralt’s life where that feels like a gift because it means at last, for once, at  _ last,  _ with Jaskier, there is nothing here to fight. 

“I love you,” he says, hoping Jaskier can hear him over the slap of their bodies, the sounds neither of them can help but draw from one another, “I love you, I love you, I  _ love you _ —”

“I know,” Jaskier answers, his mouth nuzzled into Geralt’s sweaty hair. “I love you, too.” He pulls Geralt’s hips up to him, hard, yanking Geralt to his forearms and driving in all the deeper, and wraps his other hand around Geralt’s cock. 

He’s everywhere,  _ everywhere,  _ and Geralt’s making loud, nearly surprised noises as he gives himself over utterly to Jaskier. That mouth on his throat, that cock hard inside him, that clever, knowing hand, it’s all Jaskier, he belongs to Jaskier and Jaskier belongs to him, and it’s Jaskier, bringing Geralt to the sheerest, sparkling pleasure, and Geralt goes still and silent for just a moment, until he  _ crests,  _ crying out, shaking apart in Jaskier’s arms. 

It goes on and on, that wild and thrilling rush of ecstasy, Jaskier making love to him so beautifully and intently that it eclipses everything else, a blazing peak of undeniable joy. 

Until at last he slows, hoarse and breathless, and Jaskier carefully loosens his grip.

“Don’t stop,” Geralt manages. He’s trembling in the aftermath, fumbling for Jaskier’s hand, intertwining his fingers. “In me.  _ Please,”  _ he adds, before Jaskier can ask if he’s sure.

Jaskier gives a low, cheeky laugh in his ear. He holds Geralt tight and moves inside him, needful jerks of his hips into where Geralt’s fucked out and pliant, overstimulated and awash with sensation and love. 

“Yours,” Geralt gasps, arching into him with no art, just offering. 

“Mine,” Jaskier agrees, with so much love in his voice Geralt feels it in his fucking  _ bones,  _ and then Jaskier’s coming, deep inside him, muffling the melody of his moans into Geralt’s hair as he fills him up.

Geralt closes his eyes. He tunes his senses to the heavy scent of Jaskier’s come, the wet heat and spread of him inside, his hand clasped with Geralt’s.

When Jaskier pulls out at last, he doesn’t go far. He gives Geralt the closeness they both know he wants, pressing their bodies together as their breathing slows, tangling into each other with mindless, easy intimacy.

Jaskier is, as he often is, the first to break the quiet.

“You’re fucking amazing, you know that?” He’s brushing his mouth to each of the knuckles on Geralt’s right hand, over and over. Something of a litany, but Geralt feels like he’s the one being blessed by it.

“You’ve said,” Geralt rumbles, but he still can hardly believe Jaskier believes it. He closes his eyes again, breathes in the unapologetic love and honesty and  _ trust  _ in the man before him, and shivers.

“It’s true, though,” Jaskier says softly. Geralt shakes his head.

“All I know,” he murmurs, and he rises on shaky arms to roll on top of Jaskier, to hold him like he’d been held, “is that I’m better now than I was.” He sighs, noses Jaskier’s cheek. “Thanks to you.”

Jaskier beams at him, lets his long limbs wrap around his body. He never wants him to let go.

“You’re welcome,” Jaskier winks, and embraces him.

They do, presently, once Geralt regains the ability to walk, make it to the party. Geralt is scandalized by the few stains that did make it onto the dress, but Jaskier insists they’re hardly visible and there’s no way anyone without witcher senses will smell it. Geralt relents only because it would be a shame, after all, if Jaskier didn’t get to be seen in that dress.

The party is like many Geralt’s been to, full of pushy crowds and laughter and wine, and unlike many Geralt’s been to, because Jaskier’s far from the only man in a gown, and there are plenty of women in doublets that could have been found in the bard’s closet, not to mention quite a few partygoers of indeterminate gender in all assortments of outfits. The air is thick with joy and lust and dancing, and the specific sort of celebration that comes from true peace. As they make their way through it, Jaskier still glances at Geralt with a hint of hesitancy, but Geralt’s heart is thundering for a reason unrelated to any sort of shame or judgment. 

This feels like choice.

This feels like  _ freedom. _

An entire keep’s worth of people unbound by destiny or fate, walking the world in whatever way suits them best, loving who they choose to love.

Geralt can’t think of a party better suited for his bard.

He tries to give him space, but ends up mainly hovering at Jaskier’s side as Jaskier greets various friends. He accepts drinks and food and smiles, trying to not reveal how his heart sings in his chest as Jaskier introduces him eagerly as  _ my witcher, my partner,  _ and once, simply  _ mine.  _

Presently, the others taper off, and it’s just the two of them in the midst of a dancing crowd. 

“You doing okay?” Jaskier asks, in a way that lets Geralt know it’s all right if he’s not. Geralt runs a finger down one brocaded sleeve, ghosting a knuckle over the strong shoulder beneath. 

“More than,” Geralt says honestly. “Thank you for bringing me here. For trusting me, with this part of you.” He pauses, swallows. “I was not—I’ve never been  _ allowed _ to—er.”

Jaskier’s smile is warm as a hearth, his eyes bright because he  _ understands,  _ Geralt knows he does.

“I’m so glad you like it,” Jaskier whispers, and Geralt knows he doesn’t only mean the party.

“I love it,” Geralt says, loudly and at once, and Jaskier beams. He places his arms on Geralt’s waist, and Geralt lets him lead them into a dance. 

Jaskier will bring him to more of these parties. One day, Geralt will let Jaskier braid flowers into his hair for the occasion. One day, he’ll ask him to braid flowers into his hair for no occasion other than that he likes it. One day, he’ll ask Jaskier to help him pick out a dress of his own, just to try it out, and it’ll turn out he likes that too. Not really more than his armor, but it’s comfortable and he likes the way he feels in it, and he lets himself like it. Jaskier  _ never _ pressures, just lets him know it’s okay to try things. To choose for himself, to give himself the freedom to learn who he is outside of who he was made to be. 

And several years later, though only one of them wears a dress to their wedding, it’s mainly because it’s very cold up in the mountains at Kaer Morhen and Geralt needs to wear several layers as Jaskier ends up stealing half of them to wrap around himself during the reception. Geralt does wear quite a lovely one the following day, though admittedly, it doesn’t stay on him long past breakfast.

In their vows, each says to the other,  _ I love you as you are. Everything you are. You make me feel safe.  _ And though the road ahead is long and filled with peril, they never stop choosing each other, and those vows remain true.

**Author's Note:**

> Er, this ended up with more healing gender feelings than expected.
> 
> title from The Amazing Devil’s ridiculously beautiful “Fair.”
> 
> I hope you enjoyed <3
> 
> find me on tumblr @ [welcomemysentence](https://welcomemysentence.tumblr.com/)


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